“He’s a good man?”
Startled, I shift in my seat to face the president. “I’m sorry?”
“Your fiancé. He’s a good man?”
I open my mouth but no words come out. It is not what I expected him to say. “I . . . yes. I guess he is.”
He puts his tumbler down roughly and the whiskey swings back and forth in the glass. When he turns to me, his hand falls out to the side to brace himself against the table. He is drunk. I hadn’t realized it before, even though he was steadily drinking throughout dinner, but now his eyes are unfocused, and his body matches his whiskey, swaying a little from side to side.
“You’re not sure?” he asks.
I stare at the condensation that beads on the edge of his glass. The table is littered with the remnants of our dinner: dirty forks and water-stains on the once white cloth. “I don’t know. I think there was a time I would have said yes without reservation. But now I’m wondering if I ever knew him at all.”
“Relationships change.” The bitterness in his voice makes me look up.
“Mr. President, are you okay?”
He takes a heavy breath that flutters through his mustache. “I think I might need to rest for a minute. I’m usually more careful at events like this.”
This is my opportunity. I lean into him and lower my voice. “Why don’t we go somewhere quieter? No one would have to know.”
He nods his head, his eyes half closed. I cannot tell how drunk he is, but his body is steady as he pulls himself up from the table.
“If you’ll excuse me for a minute, gentlemen.”
The other men murmur their good-byes, and I ignore the way they look at me with knowing eyes.
The president walks on his own, his back straight, his large chest pushed out in front of him like a sail that has just caught the wind. At first we are side by side, but I slowly move in front of him until I’m leading the way, angling us toward the small library where I know Twenty-two had been planning on taking him.
We pass by Tim, who’s carrying a tray heavy with dishes. I put my hand out to stop him. “Bring two glasses of water to the reading room, please.”
He nods.
Sardosky and I continue through the crowd. It is different walking with him. Instead of fighting my way through the guests, everyone parts before us, a Red Sea disguised as silk gowns and dark suits. A Secret Service agent follows behind, and even when the crowd is dense I can feel him at our backs.
When we are near the orchestra, almost to the edge of the room, I turn my head and see Wes and Twenty-two on the dance floor. Their arms are wrapped around each other, his hand on the bare skin of her back, and he appears to be holding her more closely than he held me. For one second I think our eyes meet, but then he whips her around in a fast circle, and the moment is gone.
I lead Sardosky out of the ballroom, down a short hallway, and into the small library. When I open the door, he looks over his shoulder at the agent who followed us. “Wait outside.”
The younger man’s face is like granite as he nods.
The room is empty, the walls lined with bookshelves from ceiling to floor. A pale green love seat sits in the center, and there are no windows, just the overwhelming smell of musty books.
Sardosky steps inside while I shut the door behind us.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
Now that we are away from the staring crowds, he is like a marionette with his strings cut, staggering forward until he reaches the couch. He slumps down onto the silk cushion and lifts his hand to his forehead. “Unsteady.” He narrows his eyes at me from under his hand. “Will you get in trouble for being in here alone with me?”
“Michael didn’t see us leave.”
“I suppose it would look bad, if he did.”
Before I can respond there’s a knock at the door. When I open it, Tim is there, holding a tray with two tall glasses of water. I step back to let him enter.
He sets the tray on a side table next to the couch. Sardosky does not acknowledge him; he still has one hand pressed to his forehead, but now his eyes are tightly closed. Tim glances at me, then nudges the glass closest to the lamp. I tilt my chin down and he bows low.
“Please let me know if you need anything else,” he says before he leaves the room.
When I shut the door behind him the click it makes sounds ominously loud, and I stare at the wood for a second, at the wavy lines of the grain running parallel, up and up. I imagine them as part of a tree, alive and stretching toward the sun. When I turn back around, Sardosky is in the same spot, his head against the back of the couch.
“I hate these things,” he mumbles.
“The fund-raiser?”
“Just a bunch of blowhards standing around bragging about who has more money, with politicians kissing their asses.”
I don’t say anything.
“I know, I know.” He laughs without opening his eyes. “I’m one of those ass-kissing politicians. It’s the game you have to play, if you want to make any sort of change.”
I lean back until I’m pressed against the door. I know the type of change he wants to make, but I can’t tell him the consequences of it. It makes it worse, that his intentions are good.
“You should have some water,” I say.
He sits up fully. It takes a minute for his eyes to focus on me. “Not yet.” He runs a hand down his face, stroking his mustache, his chin. “I don’t usually drink this much. But seeing you . . .”
I tilt my head, my hair sliding
